


The Link

by ChroniclyFlaming



Category: Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic, Star Wars: The Old Republic
Genre: F/M, Sexual Tension, T3 ships it, bastila is lost and revan might have map
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 23:39:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1204774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChroniclyFlaming/pseuds/ChroniclyFlaming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Have you ever wondered about how much gets shared over this force link between Bastila and Revan? Because Bastila does. All the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Link

**Author's Note:**

> A.N: Finally time to post this thing. First step into this particular fandom even. I started it a while back now, but never finally put the finishing touches to it until I decided to replay the KOTOR games. Written for the oldschoolbioware kink, when it still existed.
> 
> Doesn't quite fill the prompt exactly...but more Revan/Bastila is always good, right?
> 
> The Prompt:
> 
> KOTOR: The link between Bastila and Revan...
> 
> Right. Basically to keep this comm alive, here's a promt:  
> Have you ever wondered about how much gets shared over this force link between Bastila and Revan? So... If your Muse is striking you, I'd love to see some (lol-)reaction of the tight Jedi to some smutty/steamy/whatever Revan (plus/minus LI) action.
> 
> Anon prefers F!Revan/Carth, but that's not the point.
> 
> The Fill:

 

* * *

" **And are you so certain that it is not you in** _ **my**_ **dreams?"**

-Bastila Shan to PC

* * *

As with so much else, Bastila was given little warning even through the Force to prepare herself. Even while she meditated, away from the others, repeating to herself the Jedi Code that suddenly felt so stilted after the shock. Alone, there was no one there to see the rising flush of heat to make her ears burn or notice how her eyes opened and stared to not see the unmade bunk ahead or notice the way her composure sunk as shoulders curled inward.

By the Force, was he doing _that again_?

One of these day, Bastila was going to send Carth in after him. No, _Canderous_. Let everyone know what he did in his spare time while she was attempting to meditate and could only now sit here with gritted teeth. Sixth time this week.

There was only serenity.

There was.

It just hidden away from her clumsy grasp.

Remember what she and Juhani had discussed, just days ago. The insidiousness of the dark side and how it crept up, that one had to surrender to the Force and trust instinct, but remain alert at all times. A not uncomfortable conversation, and she liked to believe they had both been at peace during that talk, for once the cathar not restless and she less preachy than her norm. The blessing of peace.

Could have been worse, yes. He was not alone and imagined taking revenge against Malak and then the Republic while doing…that. Or _with_ someone and engaging in similar physical activity. By the grace of her Jedi training was Bastila able to avoid wondering what _exactly_ Kal was thinking about at this moment. At least he wasn't planning on reclaiming his role as Sith Lord. Presumably. No plots of taking over the galaxy.

No, just _her mind_ , a thing that stood on a precipice, apparently. Every gust of wind threatened to send it over the edge into what, Bastila didn't know. Emotion. Raw passion that was as far away from peace as she could imagine. This _thing_ that made Bastila want to claw metal from the walls should she allow herself to focus on it. Especially when she might be talking to someone, or fixing something or simply reading, and she would feel it, again, and it seemed to be stronger every time like he was truly drawing her close to him in whatever way he could and she knew what Kal was thinking of and could nearly see it, them, and it could destroy them both because it was as tempting as the dark side, it was the dark side, and Bastila needed to press her forehead against the cold metal right now. It was the very reason why she had gone to meditate.

She would just ignore that _thing_ , with its teeth and nails that scratched at her serenity. Focus on every inhale and exhale, look inward. No. Outward. Towards their mission of stopping the Sith taking over. The humming of the ship. The life within these walls of the ship and the Force itself. The responsibility that so far she had carried without cracking under the strain. The warmth of life, peaceful, its heat and glow and call that she could grasp in hand and feel a pulse, shiver at the sensation—what.

What.

Nothing.

That had been nothing.

Perhaps the best thing was not to sit in this room alone and free from distraction. Not locked up and concentrating on herself and exactly what she was experiencing.

Exactly. What. she was. _experiencing._

_Exactly._

Inhale. Exhale. Serenity, yes. Peace.

…like he was a teenager! Unable to control himself. How was she to confront him about it, either? Slap him and tell him to have more self-control? Bastila could nearly picture him alone in the men's dorm: hand on himself, finding a rhythm, lying there on his bunk, showing off should someone walk in. Like he wanted to someone to walk in on him having his fun. No, she _couldn't_ know any of that, such details were only the work of an over-active imagination and Bastila had no reason to believe that Kal might even be waiting for her to find him like that, waiting and _knowing_ , did he know?

Know what.

Nothing.

_Exactly._

This is what came of being Bonded to another who had not been properly trained as a Jedi, sharing a ship, and all the unwanted intimacy that came along with it. Perhaps it wasn't even truly Kal's fault, for not having self-control when it came to that personal matter, and if he found some relief in a relatively harmless matter, then she should not begrudge him that. It was only her business so much as it affected her, after all, and with enough time and training, their connection of the Force would be developed enough to block out such personal matters that should not be shared even through the Bond.

Still, if he kept this up, Bastila would send HK-47 in there with a bucket of cold water to throw on him.

A bucket of cold water and a loaded gun.

* * *

There is only them in the black of the dream. No need for separation, for the lies, to keep herself held so separately from him and worry. Only the curl of his mouth beneath her own, the fabric of his clothes, then of his skin beneath, a leg between her own. Heat. Her name, over and over again. The taste of him as they tumbled backwards toward what might have been a bed. Their foreheads touching. Hips meeting, one being as it should be. Finally.

Just them, twisting, with only his name on her mouth to separate them, his real, true name-

The scream welling in her throat was only partially choked down and she saw her companions across from her rising, stumbling, searching out for danger. A flat cot, not back on Dantooine, on the Ebon Hawk. Her name was Bastila Shan, her father was dead, mother dying, and she was a Jedi Knight and this callous was from her lightsaber, and this burn on her elbow that still ached was from underestimating the cooking equipment onboard this ship. Yes. She was also fully clothed and alone in this bedding.

That was Juhani with a blaze of blue. Over there, Mission, cursing after having hit her head and lekku.

Bastila might have said something, towards them, towards the ceiling, towards the Force. A prayer of mercy. A plead for forgiveness. Eternally sorrowful for all she'd done to earn this, her ego and personal failings could be repented. She had never meant for any of this to happen. It was her fault for being overly confident. For maybe that strange previous fantasy the night before where he'd been in the shower with her, rather platonically for all the nudity, and only washing her back- still, she had awoken, disturbed.

Somewhere, there was another Jedi on this ship, older than her, and the man she was supposed to protect. From the Sith, but particularly from himself. Middling height and a slim build. Close set dark eyes and a long nose that dominated his other features. A face that always looked like it needed a fresh shave, and she had studied it well, looking for the cold gleam to awake in his eyes and for his skin to grow sallow.

The man in another room had two names. Had two different pasts though they were beginning to overlap.

These things were all true, and so was the fact that she had just awoken from a _vivid sexual dream involving that man._

His fault. That much Bastila also knew, understood, and accepted. That was also the truth, and no, denial over the entire incident would not help her. This must be confronted, not shied away from or else it would happen again, like his exasperating attempts at flirting, at being more than friends. It had happened, that dream, but it was only a _dream_. Something that she could not control, as infuriating as that might be, also meant that she could not be blamed.

No, there was only _Kal_ to blame.

A reminder that he was a man, a human that could not understand the level of detachment necessary for a Jedi. One that grew as sick as the rest of them that time when Mission had prepared a dinner of something slimy and a simple polite bite could and did sicken even a Wookie. A man that refused to let up on his teasing, who was generous and far too honest when it came to certain things. Such as beginning a conversation by informing her that any day now he would begin tallying up all the times she stared at him, and would she like to discuss her feelings for him because he was all ears. Ears, and a mouth full of laughter when he'd run away, and belated she realized what he was doing, and had chased him- he could fall, be eaten by something, run into more Mandalorians. A fool, idiotic, childish, Bastila had repeated to herself until she was hit in the head with a ball of mud. Somehow, it escalated in a way that still could not be explained, and how that frightened her. To be found by Jolee like that, dirty and her furious and shoving clods of dirt down his tunic.

He had spat out grass, still smiling up at her. Under him. "Isn't mud wrestling typically done in the nude?"

The final straw. Bastila had left him like that, filthy hands shaking, completely unsympathetic when he complained about the new rash and literally biting her tongue when he began to talk of scratches on his back being technically caused by her. It still surprised her that her calm had remained rather than lapse to allow her to scream obscenities at him. The stares from the others and her sputtering in humiliation and him _just sitting there_ as though talking of nothing more than the weather.

A _cesspit_ of less base desire, he was. No, not just _Kal._ All he touched. What he made this entire situation. As though his ability at gathering loyal followers had been perverted in a literal matter. They couldn't just be a man and a woman, friends, oh no. Better to open his mouth and insist that she was flirting with him even if all she asked him the most mundane questions. As though he knew how little experience she had in these matters and was insistent on rubbing her face in that. Bad enough to travel without the wisdom of a Jedi Master that might have helped her calm the pitches of frustration and fear, but now she had to recall all the talk of how one avoided romantic entanglements.

Yes, it had been rampant in earlier years during her training. Hormones ricocheting off walls and physical combat horrid. Gossip and self-consciousness. Even older students—or had they always been like that and only time had given perspective—got caught up and spied upon for signs of well, affection. Notes on books and hidden data pads and noticing how many people flocked to certain others, and had that been why so many people had followed Revan, and especially the exiled Jedi? The master that had left after news of a secret child had been whispered of, or had, no, that must have been a tawdry lie and the dark side—or had that been a lie to explain it, and who had she trained, taught…

If Bastila had been younger, it could have been explained away. Close contact with someone her age or close enough. One not still feeling the pangs of marriage and widowhood or was another species or were simple disgusting. Disgusting, both physically and mentally and psychologically…and that was a group that should have included him. _Everyone_ , to her, should have been in that group. For sake of her vows.

But Carth, objectively, was handsomer surely. Square-jawed and helpful, loyal, a neat strand of hair always falling into his warm brown eyes. Soft-voiced. The older pilot. Others would glance at him with idle interest, always. It could have been easily dealt with, ignored, and would not be the cause of severe anxiety that bordered on panic. If it had been him, she wouldn't find herself up at night, trying and failing to meditate.

But no! Of _course not._ That would have been simple and easy, and Force forbid something go well. Of all people, her tongue turned to a dry sponge or would not _stop_ when catching dark brown eyes in a thinner face. Jutting bone structure and hollows for shadows. Interesting, but not handsome. Objectively. _Fascinating_ , Bastila might admit, in its own way with the raised eyebrows that could indicate a myriad of things, but not necessarily _comely._ Compared to those other men that she had never experienced such an attraction towards such as this.

His face that was always holding a smile. Too thin with his large nose and spill of brown hair onto his forehead, and she found herself disliking him for the light stubble around his mouth and the size of his ears irked her incessantly. All of which was irrelevant, and all the more maddening.

She didn't _need_ to make a list of his _physical_ flaws to calm her; it belonged to him and therefore, that should be enough. She shouldn't find herself distracted by the length of his fingers or the width of his arms in that red jacket. His smile, the shape of his pale lips, and the steady glow in his eyes when they spoke. The way he caught the eye with his commanding presence, even now. When she'd pass him in the narrow halls, and have to ignore the smell the soap he washed with and the odor of what he used to clean his hair. Whip thin and fast, quick to turn and wink when he caught you staring at him. 'Fifth time today. Just so you know.'

Bastila hadn't even deigned a reply. Furious and promising herself to always look away, until an hour later when he sidled up and insisted on a higher number.

All to be blamed on the Bond that they shared.

Their physical contact brief and mentally scaring, now all the more horrifying, and either involving combat gone awry or, once _, slow dancing_. When he had first joined the Order at a wedding ceremony on Dantooine, and Bastila had believed this could all work out and that no, she had made the right decision after all to bring him here. At ease, despite his hand on his hip and the awareness of his easy grace. A gentleman, underneath his supposed-smuggler's appearance, and for that Bastila had been grateful. If still mildly uncomfortable with his presence. A part still screaming when she saw him, _Darth Lord of the Sith Revan, right there, asking how I like my tea, Revan, dancing with a Sith Lord, Revan right there-_

Until they were leaving the Academy, and he opened his mouth to say with such dryness that Bastila had been unsure if he was solely kidding or not, 'I think we both know the reason you've been watching me.' The slightest way his voice could arch.

'You're so cute when you're embarrassed.'

And of course she had to go back and add to her previous statement, edit and refute and clarify while he just stood there laughing at her.

How was she to respond to that? Any of it?

While he stood there, so smugly sure of himself. Dark brown eyes, Bastila had dismissed at first. An inconsequential fact of his face that hardly deserved a second glance. Until she was taking another stare at him over their training blades, and the light hit them just the right way. Wrong way. Way to emphasize and draw your gaze to his eyes. Dark brown, with hints of something lighter around the pupil. Yellow in his eyes, Bastila had though, disconcerted, until a second glance corrected her. Not the sickening yellow of the dark side, but gold filaments around the pupil. Happy amber, healthy and eager. The color of the brandy her father had kept for special occasions and she wasn't allowed to touch…there was something worrying about that fact. Romanticism. A terrible psychological facet that she was forced to obsess and worry over as someone with a gaping wound must look down to see the full extent of the damage.

Whimper as you realize: Kal, you have beautiful eyes.

Nothing had happened. Not yet. Never. A dream. What was a dream but random meaningless images? Certainly they had never been intimate, Bond or not. Never touched, not _really._

Belatedly, she could remember that dance. The firm swell of his shoulder in one hand and the other hand clasped in his, so close to feel each other's' callouses. Coming up behind her on the Beon Hawk before takeoff for a near-hug, to lock the restraints in the co-pilots chair, a chipper, _"safety first_!" Flowers on Kashyyyk that had been offered to her until they twisted in his hands to bite his forearm.

Now this addition. The final slip downward.

'Outburst of uncontrolled emotion' she had once said to him in regards to love. A warning, a portend.

It wasn't the first time he had kept her awake. Before they had met, him under any name, Bastila had spent nights worrying about the war. With the Mandalorians, and then when he and his followers turned against the Republic, she had heard the rumors and pictured him. In more foolish youthful moments, had perhaps pictured herself being the one to defeat him. With one lightsaber swipe, not a betrayal from his pupil that left him bleeding and blind. She had held him then, looked into unseeing eyes set in a face as unfeeling as dough.

What had driven her to going to his side to help him rather than snuff out the last embers of life? Just the Force, or mercy or to seek justice? Or something _worse,_ a part that led her to sitting outside the refresher right when he came out of a shower and had done nothing when Mission and Zaalbar had snuck in to steal his clothes. What tripped up her tongue when they spoke, and had stayed her hand instead of pushing him away faster when he went to fix hair fallen into her eyes during a sparring match?

Something appealing about his face, and him so helpless as he must not have been in years?

His face, already showing signs of dark side corruption, finally revealed as even the hounding press had never been able to show, Revan had been completely at her mercy, and this was all so _suspicious._ As was her removing parts of his armor after saving him, aware that a Jedi carrying off the Dark Lord of the Sith might raise questions from whoever might see them. Undressing and revealing more of that man who no longer properly existed and only shared the face of her friend Kal.

The face of the man that made tea exactly as Bastila wanted, in the mornings before she could even reach for the shelves. A man she had left together with, during a time when Canderous had hidden something of Carth's (hair gel, Kal had joked) and together had broken up the fist fight that finally broke out between them. Had never hurt anyone except out of self-defense, would seemingly never dream of it. That comforted her after meeting with her Mother and finding out what happened to Father. That she had seen wearing nothing but a towel and drops of water that slid down his narrow chest and clung to the dark hair on his lean legs. Delicate ankles and pale toes and a faded scar on the right side of his chest down the ribs.

Just sharing a body with the Dark Lord now. A body that Bastila had memorized the lines of too well, taken note of, and now fantasized about touching. The body that held the brains and was responsible for his laughter and his voice. His personality, self, trapped in the body of a man that had been a Sith. It really couldn't be held against him. He had not asked for that past, Kal, who was almost sweet, _inspiring,_ the way he helped others.

Even so, this attraction shouldn't exist.

It was a weakness to them both. A thing that could be exploited should they be captured, a distraction that turned their eyes from their proper mission to instead, say, admire his hands as they tinkered with T3. Their Bond must be blamed for it, for their shared visions and for being able to sense hints of what the other was thinking. It was what had either created or grew another side to her that she had always feared existed. Fed it. Told her that there was no peace, not for her, not in the wake of Revan.

A second face that saw everything, and how it whispered old resentments.

The one that had taken over to let her sit there and watch Mission taking Kal's pants from the 'fresher. _Darth Revan's pants_. And he had run out in a towel, annoyed and flushed. She had seen _Revan_ half-naked. Done nothing to prevent such an awkward sight, and when he'd noticed her staring over a meaningless datapad, had given her a jaunty smirk, 'I understand you wanting to peek at me, but what did you do with my clothes?'

He was like a child. Years too old for this. Immature. Reckless. Did he even know

(what a temptation it was)

what he was doing?

What he was doing.

What was he _doing_? Sleeping? Awake. Most definitely. Kal was awake and she could stretch out her senses to find him…

A tug downward. Awareness. Horror and a sick excitement. Again? Yes, she knew what it was despite all her disavowing of sexual temptations. No matter what the others might joke about, she wasn't that naïve. Unfortunately. Gods, though, _again_? Why tonight, right now, must he do that? Could he not wait until she was not left scrambling to regroup her senses?

Bastila, at least, could say that it wasn't her fault. That it wasn't her doing it. Her hands were right here. On this pillow. Sweaty, perhaps _shaking_ , but above the waist. Blame the Force Bond.

Or had it been because she had been preoccupied with past images? Had _she_ sent something onto him through their Bond? Bastila _swore_ that she hadn't—that this hadn't been anything planned. It had been him that had started the teasing…except for him mentioning that she watched him, which could not be easily explained to him that yes, she watched, because of his past, what he had been, what might lurk beneath that charming, idiotic smirk that could drive her crazy if she looked at it too long so it was best to treat him with something close to disdain and turn away.

Is that why—it was all her fears. Most of them, anyway. Exposure. What else might he discover, with their connection so close? These dreams that had taken a turn, so disquietingly, for the sexual?

Never before had there been anything like this for her. A thing that could make her hands grow awkward, the tips of her fingers tingle, ( _tremble, damn him_ ) if she didn't focus because he was sitting there, watching her, looking for advice. Now, in another room, doing that to himself after their dream that had possibly been shared and he would never let her live down. If he was feeling merciful, perhaps Kal would only joke about it in private and she could dismiss any accusations and, to be safe, never be left alone in a room with him again. Hope he didn't realize that she could feel him when he relieved his tensions. Let him just have dreamed his own private dreams of ships and parents that did not exist.

Bastila was willing to accept whatever had led her to dreaming of them together, in exchange for his ignorance.

There was so much he was unaware of, after all. Why not something else? His obliviousness fragile, a thing so easily ruined. Delicate. Almost _touching_ , as Bastila watched him act the cheerful leader and remember the rumors of what he'd done, what that voice had said and promised the Republic years ago.

There was a gentleness to him. It unsettled her to see him not flinch from fights, but then he would so carefully steer arguments away from violence. Was this the man that had been Revan before Revan? What he could have been, no, what he could be if this all went right. A Jedi Knight, then a Master that would have pupils that adored him. No wonder so many had followed him to war. Things made sense with him, no matter how she might find herself prattling about Jedi history and restraint and him nodding very seriously before ruining it by making a joke.

Pretending that he already knew and could not understand why she feared him so. For so many reasons, before, before _this_ , when she woke up wanting to yell into a pillow from various frustrations.

He was…oh, she could nearly feel it. _Stronger_ this time. Him reaching the end, and could nearly picture the sight of him, disgraceful the effect this man had on her, was she _whimpering_ , was that what that sound was? It definitely felt more powerful this time.

Once not long ago on Dantooine, Bastila had told him so sanctimoniously, 'You could be a great Jedi one day.'

'You mean I'm not already?'

Tomorrow, would he begin by pointing and throwing his head back to laugh at her? Blame her—and what if he was right? It might be her fault that he'd dreamed that and shared it with her. Or it had been _her_ dream…

Or it had been a _vision_.

One not of the past, but of the _future_.

Bastila crumbled, now unable to so much as whimper, so glad for the darkness and that her companions had slipped backed into their bunks and were back to their own peaceful dreams.

At least, she thought as her hands found blankets, she hadn't dreamed of being caught nude and in public. Seated in her classes with only a book to cover her or before the Jedi Council or the entire crew of the Ebon Hawk. Everyone laughing. Pointing and laughing. Only now, when she did have that dream, it was not in front of an entire group- there was only one person besides her. In or out of dreaded armor or Jedi robes, with that mask askew or still on. Either way, Bastila could see his gaze on her. Eating her alive with those eyes that saw all of her exposed, and she sometimes wanted that and wondered what he would do with her after finding her in such a state…

She needed two Jedi Masters here to advise her on this. Could she find a way to convince Kal to go back to Dantooine? All but imagine their reaction, and that helped, it truly did, their dismissal and alarm was such a balm for her right now.

Hadn't _she_ been the one convinced the Council to allow this mission?

Argued that he could be trusted, the man that had saved her. Courageous but still humble, and nothing like the Jedi that had taken so many Jedi Knights with him to war. He listened to her, Bastila had argued for his sake, he followed commands and had only shown himself to be willing to help others. Besides, we need him.

Kal could have been her friend. He could be more than that one day. Wasn't that what Kal wanted, what he hinted at incessantly? A joke. A bad joke.

The Jedi Knight wanted to go to him. Fully dressed and at a safe distance from his bed, tell him that their latest vision had been a mistake. A terrible prank was all it had been, one that will not be _repeated_ , thank you and good night, no, _not_ good night, have an awful night of being chased by banthas, you _nerf herder_. Bastila hoped he'd enjoyed that little sick thrill, because it was the _last one_ he was going to get involving her. That had been an awful joke on his part, and if Kal even thought about so much as her bare _wrist_ , she _might_ let her Jedi control lapse, especially when it came to their training sessions involving lightsabers that could so easily slip out of clumsy hands.

Comforting. Distressingly comforting to picture herself threatening him.

Yet Bastila could hardly move.

Perhaps she wouldn't, not for the rest of the night, and never mind sore muscles.

Afraid of rest, sleep could bring only more dreams, scared of the next morning, and wondering if he had already fallen asleep with a big grin on his face. Or, worse, that he might still be awake and gearing up for round two with himself.

At his mercy, in a way that none of the Jedi Master could have warned her about.

But maybe he would show pity; this was Kal, not Revan, and he might sense her aggravation and relent. Spare her embarrassment, for once. Perhaps there would be no more dreams, and Bastila could close her eyes and rest after all.

* * *

Her in his lap, all straining muscles. Gasping. The moment of shock before their bodies were so joined, that perfection, that bracing second. Joined here.

On what? _What?_ Was that a _throne_ under him? What the hell?

This was not how it normally went. How it had gone before in previous dreams like the one he'd had earlier. If there was anything in the background besides a bed under them at most. Kal, had he the choice, would have preferred the training chamber on Dantooine, wrestling behind locked doors that not even they could have broken into, oh yes. Nails in his skin. Dragging and lovely. But he couldn't shove them there, as they remained on a shadowy deck.

On a ship, on a throne, alright.

So be it.

Legs spread and clothes ripped. "Tell me. Say it."

Not his voice asking.

…the hell was that coming from? All of this?

" _Master."_

Well. Already along for the ride. Go with it.

Except what was he wearing? Not his regular robes. A _skirt_? Force. He needed to talk to someone about this, a trained profession, maybe a Jedi Master, a proper one that wouldn't start to laugh and then blab to the others immediately after hearing about so much as a rash he'd gotten from the Wookies, maybe or from that time Bastila had accidentally knocked him into a thicket of something viney. He assumed it was probably from those. Mission and Canderous laughing and wanting to see it. Indignity of his life.

This was still a weird sexual fantasy though. Way weirder than the last and the others before that one. That one where he'd been in a shower with her had been strange enough, given that they hadn't even had sex but instead just _showered_ and even then she bossed him about—a disturbingly realistic dream. Why had things taken such a strange turn? Imagine talking to someone about it. We were on a scary ship and she was on top of me, bossing me around and making me call her master. Also, I was wearing a skirt. Kriff.

Oh god, what was she doing with that _lightsaber?_ Caressing his cheek with it. A threat. "Mine."

Getting better.

"Yes, Master."

The weight of her body. This moment before, where she had to hiss a command and he had to obey because she was his Master, his goddess oh how he did and could worship her and-

HUUUUF—

A flash of darkness that ripped away all that was good in the galaxy. Canderous. Canderous waking him up with his snores. Louder than the damn Wookie. Kal could have wept. Or suffocated the Mandalorian with a pillow. Finished what Revan started with his killing of Mandalorians, and end the soldier right here. Gods, he hoped Bastila couldn't hear his cursing all the way over here. His cursing and writhing on the bed in frustration.

Eventually, Kal could breathe.

It wasn't even a surprised. That he had dreamt of her (even if it was bizarre), and that it had been _ruined_. Like all the moments when he might think that she might loosen up, or might even return how he felt and not shy away—except that it went against the Rules, and Bastila was not Bastila if she didn't adhere to the Rules. These moments were nothing but torture, but it was a sweet one and he was always willing to _try._

She, meanwhile, had always kept a steady distance. Even when he levitated a candle, his first time manipulating objects around him with the Force, and had been willing to hug even strangers in his joy, Bastila had pulled back. Looking only mildly pleased at his power.

'I feel like I should rip off my shirt in celebration.' Manly and crazed.

How quickly even that minor pride was replaced with a glare.

'I won't.'

Later, Kal had gone running to her late one evening. In only pants and an undershirt, with her at the door. Staring everywhere but him. Hair a wild, rewarding mess that he'd never been able to catch before, even on Taris. Awkwardly perched on his cot. Like she had never been alone with a guy before. Had she?

Sudden struck anew by her prettiness. Awareness of it, in the early morning with both of them rumpled messes. A very pretty Jedi. All the more attractive for her sloppy state and half-lidded eyes. The contrast between this and the way she normally looked, yet it was still Bastila, but a Bastila that yawned and needed a hairbrush. Something built up suddenly bursting from the pressure, and Kal had barely been able to show her the new adjustments he'd made to his lightsaber that suddenly felt so awkward and obvious in his hands. All restraint keeping him from asking her, 'do you want to try using it?'

Since the moment they had met, Kal had felt something of this rush. Crescendo in his chest. Looking into her eyes, blue he'd thought until they were standing there and he was feeling less and less of a hero at her scoffs and then seeing the irises properly. Back when he'd been only 'lucky' and stumbling to find something comforting to say to this grey-eyed Jedi that did not need his reassurance. At all.

Jedi could not love. Not other people in particularly. Especially not each other. Romantically.

He was a shit Jedi, no matter what they had said on Dantooine.

Alas, she was a great one, tripping Mission and fighting with Canderous aside. Better than he was. Even if she didn't seem to know it. Doubt that wrinkled her pert nose as they continued on. Quibbling over small details until a moment would rise and they would have nothing to say and there would only be this silence, and eye contact, and by that time whoever they were with would probably notice it. Jolee shaking his head, and the others all but giggling.

Feeling young as he glanced at her over his shoulder and catch her staring. Wanting only to grin and he was a boy again, teasing a girl on the playground and it didn't matter who murdered who or about the Star Maps or the war. No, it did, but for reasons other than justice. He wanted to impress her. Widen those eyes and get under that exterior of no, and not like the previous times when they had first spoken and he'd been a happy jackass. Or when she found him singing in the bathroom while cleaning, or, less embarrassing, learning of his Force talent.

Had there been other girls like her? Yes, but not the same, and that went for the boys. Friends that he'd eventually slipped bloodlessly into a familiar sexual affair with. Never lasting long. Faces gone cloudy with time. But he did remember being pinned by a burly companion whose name always escaped him, drunk, muscles large and slack and whispers of devotion. Army hazing that Kal recalled with fondness. A lovely well-built soldier with sunsoaked hair, oblivious, until another bet had been made and yes, thank the Force for the time spent in the military. Kal hadn't cared about that name at all. Light-haired women, warriors, with the palest eyes that never bothered with names.

Companions he'd been fond of. But never slapped upside the head by in such a manner. Never tugged along by someone. Like, maybe the Force, had taken him by the shoulders and spun him around. Held his head and forced him to finally pay attention, like his father used to. Oh, okay, that's how this is supposed to feel.

They had been fated. Destiny foretelling when before Kal had believed only in making his own. Preordained. How else to explain the bond and vision and way she caught him looking at her mouth, only to reel around and not let him explain? Like he could.

I was looking at you, uh, because, because, you had something on your mouth. Uh.

…Because I want to kiss you, I want nothing more than that. To grab you and pull you into my arms and finally kiss you make those lips swollen, taste you and feel you grabbing me, and to see you flustered and wanting me, and that was why I was staring.

Her mouth, yes, but what came out of it was all the more appealing. Her voice. And she wondered why he teased her. Hmm-ing, and the low startled laugh she'd made when talking of her father. Growling at him in frustration and seemingly not understanding when he'd all but fallen over. You are a strange man. _Her voice_.

Further still, beyond porcelain skin and high cheeks and pouting mouth, the button of her nose and way it wrinkled in frustration, even above the blasterbore eyes that missed nothing, sum of that and more, giddy simple love. Shades of auburn and rich brown. He could have _kissed_ her hair. Happily lost hands in it. A separate vibrant thing that must take so long to care for, and Kal could have said something about her vanity, until it occurred to him: what must it look like down? It tripped him and he could have fallen off the stump and launch himself across a fire. Just to loosen her hair. Hungry for that, and Bastila must have noticed because she took her tea well away from him, focusing her attention on Jolee going on when Kal could hear nothing…

Kal wanted to grab her. Right now. Steal her away. Sneak her off someplace quiet where no one would see them. Engage in acts of nameless pleasures. Loosen clothes and all the many things they could do to each other. A secret goal that was on his list of wants, right next to defeating Malak. They tended to switch places depending on the hour of the day.

But the once-smuggler was not entirely lost, had not drowned entirely in a pool of adoration and sloppy love, no, he knew: they would stop Malak and the Sith long before Bastila ever returned his feelings.

If anything, he must be making her uncomfortable. Who would want someone to stare at them, all but drooling, especially one as confident as Bastila who had probably not really needed his help from the Vulkar? What was he, after all, to make her forget her vows? Lucky, that was all, hell, not even that, considering how she must secretly resent being so tied to him through the Force. Loving someone that did not want to be with you, what a painful cliché he'd avoided until now.

For now, he would avoid, if not her, then alcohol. Temptations, things that would loosen his tongue. Not notice the spill of hair across a flushed cheek. Ignore his body's reaction right now as he lied in a narrow bed. Or that her legs had to break some Jedi code. Those leggings were crueler than anything the Sith could think of in their most diabolical. The way she stood all prim, and her _waist_ , and that small smile that could disappear too easily. 'Will you please pay attention?'

'I am.'

He did. To all the ways she stared, her voice that shifted when he was around, her questions, and was he supposed to ignore her staring at him and clearly interested, if not entirely willing to make that final jump? Why not treat her as an adult woman that had wants and curiosities like everyone else?

 _Every inch,_ Kal would repeat to himself, forgetting all about the Jedi Code. _Oh, every inch of you I could love in so many ways._ Was it breaking the rules to be with her, but only in his mind?

Think of her, unending, alone.

Hair down, against this face, drowning, and nothing on him but hands on his narrow ass ( _wha_ t, where had that come from?) and perfection in the pale exposed breasts. Slipping kisses down from her collarbone. Searching and finding _every inch_ of her, worshipping her properly as a hero such as her deserved. What he couldn't have, never, because of what they were. Their mission would be complete, the galaxy would be saved, and they could be separated and their Bond dismissed or lapsed in time. She would be a great Jedi Master one day.

Kal could only imagine where he would be in say, five years. After the war. Still with the Jedi, rebuilding, and alongside her? Would they still be partners in the future, only partners, and colleagues? Was that what drove him to this pathetic state of locked doors and wondering how deeply asleep his friends were at this moment. If Bastila would run in, not ready to embrace him for some even-platonic spooning, but with her lightsaber flashing and seeking his blood. If he could quickly sneak over to the 'fresher before, say, Bastila might become aware of their shared dream.

Vision.

But Fate could never be so kind.

Sighed and rolled over onto his side.

Oh, why fight it.

It was wonderful to just _want._ To admire her from afar and help her and feel that gaze on him and to hope.

All that suicidal thrill masquerading as bravery and meditation with cracked eyes until they caught each other ('if you're not going to take this seriously' 'i am just stop staring') and it was all better than the Force, his lightsaber thrumming in his hands, any track or winning hand and any relief as they saved the day in the end. Kal would walk on his hands, save innumerable galaxies and turn back time to stop suns from dying if it captured her attention. This thrill-seeking urge acknowledged, unfought, and he could feel her, could close his eyes and see her, _and_ —best to eventually want sleep and chase what he could have.

He closed his eyes but not to sleep. That would come after he found some relief.

Instead of the impossible, Kal would learn to settle for tugging on pigtails (that she literally did have), and for his dreams. There was nothing in the Jedi Code about dreams.

Was there?

He would have to ask Bastila in the morning.

* * *

Kal looked _tired_. For a moment, Bastila could almost breathe easily. Up all night, piloting the ship and hadn't gotten a wink of sleep, not so much as a daydream…

She should threaten him. Or ask if he could close their connection on his end, just a little. Say _something_?

All it took was one glance at his face to know that he knew. The pupils dilating and searching her and she shouldn't look away but she couldn't look at him.

A certain way he held himself. The avoidance of his own gaze as he handed her a mug.

 _Say_ something?

Oh, no. No. Never.

They walked around each other all day.

* * *

She walked the halls of the Ebon Hawk, as though she had become one of the ghosts all the younglings had always been sure existed in the west wing that only came out at midnight. They would sneak there at least once, in groups, to chant nonsense words and then run away screaming at the slightest sound. Never caught by the Masters, who had all done their share of checking for teachers and exchanging glow wands to hold as they told another story.

Years and years ago.

Two girls, one grabbing the other. 'You are sworn to secrecy.' Until they noticed her and skipped to another table, and she had been eaten alive with curiosity. Now she wanted to find someone, let out all of her secret to, _all_ of them in a flood of guilt. Omit nothing and maybe she could sleep tonight. Bastila wanted a _friend_ to talk to.

But all here would encourage it. Even the Jedi. They all but nudged one another at every word the two Jedi exchanged. Jolee would speak of love and not enough of its dangers and Bastila did not like the gleam in Kal's eyes when he would listen to that. From what she'd overheard, Mission and Carth had an ongoing bet to see when they would finally crack—minutes before the heat death of the universe did not have as good of odds as Bastila hoped. Even Canderous would grunt about them getting a room, gods knew they needed it. T3 had once literally dimmed the lights when they'd been alone and having tea and cookies. Kal had held his arms up when she understood what was happening and had stood up, furious. 'Did not put him up to this.'

All of them. Except perhaps one.

It was to it she went to when finding herself repeating that the Jedi had codes against love but not necessarily of _celibacy_. A messy loophole that Bastila should not dare spend more than a fleeting moment considering. Numbers and algorithms that spelled out murder. She wanted to hear of assassinations and of numerous killings and a clear mark in the sand where she would never tread.

Strange, how quickly, how easily, she could ask him in the most innocent of tones, what his 'Master' thought of her and the concept and rejection of Jedi relationships, did he understand that reality?

To say those red eyes were pitiless was an understatement on par with informing someone that Tattooine was rather dry. His voice, with its static hints, was the final mark of her insanity. "Statement: Meatbag, if you want to rub your mucous-coated lips against my Master, I do not believe he would mind."

"I do not want that! If anyone wants to do it, it's your 'Master'!"

"Observa-"

"No, what am I doing, asking you about Kal. What do you even know of Jedi? Or of-of love?"

Might as well have asked Canderous or worse, Jolee. Spoken to then and dealt with their knowing quality of their eyes. Gotten confirmation that she was leaning very far out, perilously, walking on a narrow beam. Spoken to Carth again about the Republic, stirred him into a back-and-forth discussion about the responsibilities, or given another lecture to Juhani or Mission. Wanting to argue with someone, to _fight_ someone. Someone besides herself, or Kal, who only left her frustrated and set further adrift.

Because of our Bond, those brown eyes, that he once compared me to a kinrath pup.

"Definition: 'Love' is making a shot to the knees of a target a hundred and twenty kilometers away using an Aratech sniper rifle with a tri-light scope."

…Why had she even opened her mouth and asked this creature anything?

Yet, HK-47 continued before she could stop it from speaking of more grisly details. "Not many meatbags could make such a shot, and strangely enough, not many meatbags would derive love from it.

"Yet for me, love is knowing your target, putting them in your targeting reticule and together, achieving a singular purpose…against statistically long goals."

Bastila stared up at it.

What was worse, to have asked him in the first place, or to be considering what he said and stuck with a sudden lump in her throat. Perverse. Exactly right. Empathy, sharing, wanting the same thing, what was that, if not love? What was this then, if not love?

How could they share such a thing?

How could she love him? Knowing what he was. With all her training.

How could he love her? Surely Kal must sense she held back from him. How she frowned at him. Her speeches and warnings, endless. Shunning all attempts at friendship, refusing even his jokes, and Kal trying in his way to make her laugh. Her curiosity and pride.

"That..."

That might be the best description of love I've ever heard.

Oh, oh, no.

Then she wandered away, so very flush with awareness.

Too much of it.

Hardly made it to the female dormitory in time before her—before he—began going at it.

Bastila could feel it. Teasing her. Nearly begging for her to join in, if not with him, then by herself, in spirit. In celebration. Could nearly hear him whispering, surely not, _we are alive but we might die so shouldn't we celebrate and embrace life and our connection our bodies every second apart is wasted._ How unafraid he was.

Did it go both ways, the bonds, always that question. He knew. He must.

Did this man, her fellow Jedi, notice every moment in the shower when her hands might linger? Was that why Kal did this? Revenge? Why he smiled at her so?

Bastila wanted to rage. Remove their Bond. Or to have her own revenge. Wait until he was talking to Canderous about another grisly battle, and then not give in, no, but to be more than a passive spectator of this disaster. If that's what he wanted, then she could give him it. Attack Kal in a way that only they'd know. Even that would be _because_ of him, though.

Kal did so like to grin and watch her reaction to things. Speak to her at every change. One long night, when she could not sleep but refused to avoid him alone as that would be admitting failure, she had, embarrassingly, fallen asleep talking to. In mid-conversation. Only to awake to his drooling form across the table. Familiar, but now that amused her. She could have ruffled his hair and they would laugh about it later. Friends. 'Was my story that boring?'

She needed to talk to someone. Someone older that would understand. A Jedi Master and not a knight that had once already fallen to the dark side, an ex-Sith Lord, and a man that had been only a Padawan before leaving the Order for marriage and smuggling and was so eager to tell an eager Padawan that loving another could work out. Any one of the Jedi Masters on the Council would have been wonderful to speak to, and clear her mind as they reassured her of strength and vows.

Atris, perhaps, an impressive woman who had risen so quickly to the Council and whom Bastila had met only once. She was closer in age, and had helped recommend the forbidding of all Jedi romantic involvement. Bastila wanted to be burned to an insignificant crisp by blue eyes.

'You want to do _what_ with Revan?'

'I don't want to! I just dream of it constantly!'

Bastila would have to stand before the Jedi Council, all the highest ranking members of their Order, and explain in detail how intimate their bond had become. Tell her exactly her new understanding of human sexuality, and that she now understood why people watched pornography after seeing Kal licking chocolate icing from a canister using his fingers and getting it all over his face. All about his self-indulgent behavior, ' _How_ many times a day did you say…?'

They would exile her immediately, and she would spend her days smuggling and dealing with unwanted gizka underfoot and—and with her friends. No more Order to turn to for answers. Shun all of her past and leave, as Jolee had done. A betrayal of all she stood for. And for what?

For Kal.

Revan.

_Kal._

Bastila did not want his feelings, did not want his gaze on the back of her neck, could hate herself alone for how her voice changed when they spoke. Wonder if she was purposely letting slip all the wrong words when they spoke, for sake of the liveliness that came to his face. Dislike this petty, foolish vanity that made her wonder if he found her as attractive as she him.

She understood now, more than intellectually, why love could be a weakness. You gave someone a part of yourself. You watched them walking away with that part, and go forth into a dangerous galaxy where anything could happen.

If he died, she might as well.

If Kal died, how could she continue this mission behind the concern for the vision that led their way?

No matter what happened, there must be something other than this purgatory of 'wants' and 'mustn't.'

What if _this_ continued? Throughout the war? Throughout _their lives_? As long as the both shall live—a bond, a vow, a curse. When they became Masters, when they had their own pupils and taught classes and aged, would they still be joined through the Force in such an intimate way? Years and years of her trying to ignore _Revan_ touching himself every chance he got?

It was too much.

A lesson to learn in this. That is what she will cling to and remind herself of when she is sure that any second more spent together alone will be their downfall and then she can keep herself from running away from him. He would figure it out, if she literally fled from his presence. These dreams that were certainly _not_ _visions_ , Bastila could accept meant that that some part wanted a physical relationship with Kal. All Jedi faced temptation, and this was that, as loathe as she was to admit it.

In the past, hadn't Jedi married and loved and had children? Hadn't that been part of the problem?

Still, she could find it in her to mourn.

For what could have been, if they had been given different fates. Him a man that had thrown her a surprise birthday party with a chocolate cake she'd secretly loved, that looked so alluring with his chin resting on his palm, head cocked. Him checking her for injuries after Manann when a seal hadn't worked fast enough and had left her soaking wet. That she could drive him to glazed eyes if she so much as crossed her legs at the wrong time, and Kal had left her mind dangerously blank when she saw him removing his jacket or outer robes. The appealing power they shared over each other.

Perhaps. In another life.

But maybe in a different life they never would have met.

In _another life_ , he had been the Sith Lord and her a Jedi out to stop him.

What of _this_ life though? The daily insanity of it. Of homicidal protocol droids and pickpocket Twilek teenagers that wanted to braid a Wookie's fur, Jedi that had peered too close to the dark side, Mandalorians that still saw nothing wrong with destroying entire planets, suspicious Republic pilots, and Sith Lords with warm smiles and awful taste in poetry? Where did she fit into that myriad group of misfits? The Jedi Padawan that could not stop herself from criticizing and was so far gone as to contemplate giving into that Sith Lord/smuggler?

Her few moments of exploration would become a faded memory of herself as a Padawan, from 'years ago,' to be half-forgotten. This would all but swept under a rug. Nothing had happened, after all. All in their heads.

In this life, Bastila was happy with her choices, her accomplishments, and even being on this mission, with being a _Jedi_.

There were much more important things than a sexual relationship.

Bastila could and will wait it out. When it was all over, perhaps their Bond could be severed.

Thus, if she found herself relieving the built up pressure, all for the better of her sanity. It was not giving into passions, but instead would be an experiment, to see if the state of her condition would subside. Only in their heads, after all. He was not here. She was by herself, and had complete control over this situation—if she wanted to touch her own body and think whatever she wanted, then so be it. If Kal read something into the situation, then that was on him.

Bastila locked the door and continued on with this life.


End file.
